


Aftermath

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Best Friends, Bisexual Edward Nygma, Body Horror, Companionable Snark, Drinking, Edward Nygma Has Anger Issues, Flirting, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied Sexual Content, Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow are Different People, M/M, Medicine, Mild Blood, Night Terrors, Post-Break Up, Psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: Some people handle things better than others.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane & Harleen Quinzel, Oswald Cobblepot & Edward Nygma, Selina Kyle & Edward Nygma
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. Edward

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of follow up to _Sirens of Mercy_ , but they can be read independently of each other.

“So help me, if it doesn’t work this time…” Edward says under his breath, screwing the metal paneling back onto a knee high piece of machinery.

Besides such bitter mutterings from said ginger brunet genius, a low whirring, and the odd sounds of power tools, the workshop-slash-living-quarters is solely occupied by a tense, heavy silence.

Standing back and retrieving a remote, Edward presses a button and watches intently, whispering, “come on, _come on_ …”

Much of the last month has been spent in a similar fashion, Edward occupying the building by his physical presence alone, interrupted only by vocalized frustration and misdirected rage, and the odd sounds of power tools being thrown down in disgust.

Waiting for a long moment, pulling his goggles up to better see, Edward almost counts it as a success- Until the machine short circuits, the sizzling sound of wires frying outmatched only by the genius screaming, “goddammit!”

Throwing the remote at the short device- a small generator with electrified prongs, intended to charge the metal floor of his next death trap on command- Edward storms off to his draft table, furiously scribbling out an equation and sitting in the office chair with a huff. He chews on the eraser of his pencil, the last of its shredded nub desperately clinging to the wood and metal, and reviews his “blue” print on green paper, grumbling to himself as he skims over the schematics and calculations once again. Everything is perfect! It has _no_ reason to not be working! Even after he edited and further perfected the machine. The idea of he, _the Riddler_ , making a mistake is laughable- these many consecutively is simply _impossible_. As one of his robotic assistants whirrs past him, he looks over his shoulder, half expecting there to be someone sapient and scowling to give his full attention to the genius' grievances, as anyone would. This only agitates him more, groaning and holding his head in his hands, further messing his once beautifully coiffed hair.

He doesn’t so much as shift at the sound of someone landing just a few feet behind him, dully asking, “what do _you_ want, Selina?”

“Is it a crime to check up on my favorite green bean?” the thief asks, keeping her distance.

He laughs coldly at this, glancing over his shoulder and answering, “if you’re committing it, yes.”

Rolling her eyes, Selina says, “just be glad I'm not Pam or Harley. Both of them are still pissed over your little bots throwing them out.”

“They were _intruding_ ,” Edward corrects, “and when _isn't_ Pamela, in all her pleasantness, cross with me? Or _anyone_ besides you two-”

“Watch it, Nygma,” Selina interrupts, lowering her voice as a warning. “I came here to help you. Don’t turn this into a fight just because you’re bored and mad at someone else.”

“Oh, did _he_ tell you to say that?” Edward accuses, spinning around in his chair and standing up. “He told you all about my little temper tantrums and ‘anger issues,’ didn’t he?”

Giving him an unimpressed look, Selina says, “Eddie, I’ve known you longer than he has- longer than _most_ people have cared to. I don’t need an ex shrink just as far up his own ass to tell me what’s wrong with you.”

“Additionally, _I_ don’t need an all but literal cat burglar telling _me_ my own issues,” Edward snaps back.

“Because you don’t have any?” Selina asks sarcastically.

“Exactly!” Edward agrees. “None that I can’t fix _on my own_.”

“And you’re doing a fine job of that,” Selina mutters, looking around at the projects littering the space and disorganized papers scattered on the floor.

Glancing around as well, Edward sputters out a few incoherent, offended syllables before countering, “it’s hardly my fault the cleaning crew doesn’t operate as I’ve programmed them to!”

Neglecting to point out the obvious _yes it is_ , Selina instead says, “you could get out for longer than sticking your head out the window to see what time it is. If you’ve even done _that_ in the last 72 hours.”

Scoffing again, Edward waves her off, sitting back in his chair and turning back to face his desk. He begins scribbling at the paper again, something Selina immediately recognizes as an act to appear to be busy and, more importantly, ignoring her.

Crossing her arms, she states, “you sitting here cooped up alone isn’t going to help you any.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You’re only making things harder for yourself,” she adds.

He huffs and pretends to cross something out, pointedly making it clear she’s now annoying him. Beginning to say something else, Selina sighs, shakes her head, and steps back over to the window she entered from. Shooting one last look at the back of his head, she vaults through the opening, making nary a sound as she lands. Not that Edward listens, more focused on muttering to himself and chewing his pencil yet again to care. Obviously.

With a habitually purposefully loud sigh, Edward lets himself drop into the plush chair in his bedroom, leaning back in it and resting his head at an angle to stare up at the ceiling. While he hadn’t done much that day, unable to focus enough to work, he feels exhausted. Hell, he didn’t even have the energy to put his work clothes on. Going over the previous night’s conversation for the umpteenth time in his head, he frowns and sits upright, absently scratching the small amount of scruff that’s beginning to cover his chin. Surprised at the sensation, he holds his hand there for a moment before slowly taking it away, standing up and padding over to his vanity mirror. He can’t help but stare in shock at the sight looking back at him; his soft hair is frizzy and tangled, his creamy skin is mottled, his face is greasy and covered in oil, there are dark bags under his beautiful brown eyes- He’s an utter mess! Stepping away from the mirror, he hesitates to comb his fingers through his hair, wrinkling his nose at the idea of feeling the grease in it. His mind wanders back to Selina’s words last night, and how he must have looked, no doubt humorous at best. Making a face, he mutters to himself, storming over to his dresser and retrieving clean pajamas. Damned he’d be if his reputation is rendered to that of a hung up shut in. Before he can make sure it isn’t, however, a shower is first priority.

Stepping through the doors of the Iceberg Lounge, Edward smiles his dazzling, _plaque free_ smile at the two men standing there, handing one his green suit jacket and the other his matching bowler hat. Thanking them both and readjusting his glasses, he ventures further into the Lounge, waving a gloved hand to a few familiar faces and smirking to himself as he ambles along through the building. The warm light shining in his brilliant green eyes- the colored false contacts a necessity to his public appearance- he revels in the surplus of attention cultivated by his absence from the world outside his workshop, a round of hushed murmurings sweeping through the tables and bar. Of course, his exceptionally pristine, sharp black dress shirt and deep emerald slacks help immensely, the amethyst tie with an inverted gold question mark pulling the whole look together. Soon enough, every set of eyes in proximity are turned towards him, watching him as he sits at the bar and makes his order, letting his cane hang off his arm as it raises his drink. Exactly where he wants them. Before too long, the owner of the grand establishment taps him on the elbow, giving the genius a sharp toothed grin when he looks at him.

“Finally decided to join the living again, eh?” Oswald asks.

Shrugging and taking a sip of his absinthe, Edward says, “I didn’t want everyone getting _too_ bored without my presence to liven things up.”

Scoffing and shaking his head fondly, Oswald says, “s’long as you don’t liven things up too much.”

“No promises,” Edward states with a wink.

“You’ll be paying for whatever you break,” Oswald reminds him, only half joking.

Ignoring the subtle threat, Edward chuckles and smiles at Oswald, saying, “rest assured, my dear Os, I’m your least concern.”

Oswald sighs, at which Edward’s smile broadens knowingly, and says, “enjoy your night, _in moderation_.”

Not acknowledging the plea, Edward asks, “is Harvey in attendance tonight?”

“They’re out on business,” Oswald informs.

“Pity,” Edward says simply.

“Dare I ask why?” Oswald inquires.

Rather than a verbal answer, Edward takes another sip of his absinthe, pointing past Oswald at three men standing around a table, each with a gun drawn. Squawking indignantly, Oswald hurriedly bids Edward farewell and rushes off to the table, loudly reminding them of the weapons free policy of the Lounge. Edward smirks as he watches him go, eventually turning back to face the bar, only for something moving in his peripheral to catch his attention. 

Turning to face a brunette woman leaning on the bar as well, he arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow and asks, “may I help you with something?”

“Oh, just curious,” she says simply, quietly, looking him up and down shyly. “You look rather different in person,” she adds after a moment.

“A fan, hm?” Edward chuckles.

“I suppose you could say that,” she says, somewhat sheepish but not to be deterred. “I’ve never met a supervillain before.”

“Ah, well, fortunate as my being your first is, I’m afraid it’s rather misleading,” Edward admits. “Most aren’t as pleasant as I. Certainly not as charming, either. Though, I can’t help but wonder from your tone if you’ve been _trying_ to meet one?”

“Well…” She says, batting her lashes. “I’m trying to get a job at the _Gazette_ , and I figured an interview with a rogue would make a nice looking resume.”

Immediately catching on to her intent, reasoning she’s under the widespread assumption the easiest way to talk to him is in bed, Edward almost assures her otherwise but stops, giving her a sly wink instead. He’s in a good mood tonight, why avoid an opportunity to make it better?

“That’s a dangerous way to go about it, you know,” he cautions. Before she can try to plead her case, he moves closer, lowering his voice to ask, “why don’t we go somewhere safe for that interview, hm?”

She blinks, clearly not expecting him to reciprocate her advances, her cheeks turning a slight pink as she nods. Broadening his smile, Edward offers her his arm, letting her take it and leading her towards the exit. It’s safe to say, he thinks to himself as he smirks at Oswald passing by, his reputation is still very much intact.


	2. Jonathan

Retching, Jonathan has only a moment to pull his hair out of the way as he doubles over once again, his stomach attempting to empty the contents it doesn’t have into the toilet. He stays there for a few minutes, his entire body trembling as he all but clings to the ceramic, struggling to breathe. The room seems to spin as he kneels there on the floor, certain he’ll be thrown into the wall or ceiling by the force of the rotation if he lets go. However, as something touches his shoulder, he flinches away and covers his face, shouting something incoherent at best.

“It’s okay, Cranie, it’s me,” a voice says. “It’s _Harley_. You’re okay.”

“Harl…?” he asks, ever so eloquent, slowly lowering his hands.

Kneeling down next to him, Harleen holds her hand out to him, nodding and saying, “let’s get’cha back to bed, okay?”

Looking from Harleen to her hand and back, Jonathan grimaces and asks, “do you h-have any-?”

Holding back a sigh, Harleen slowly reaches for Jonathan, carefully helping him to his feet and mumbling, “I toldja not to quit cold turkey…”

Had Jonathan been in a clear state of mind eight days ago, he would have agreed. That wasn’t the case as soon as he realized what had transpired the day before, blaming himself for the fallout despite the wounds inflicted on him- physically and emotionally. Though as Harleen helps him into the guest bed again, placing a cool washcloth on his forehead, the former causes him to struggle and wince as a particularly tender bruise on his ribs is agitated as he lays on it. Attempting to help him shift in bed to not lay on the bruise anymore, Harleen has to quickly jump back as Jonathan flails his arm at being touched again, his short leave of lucidity over and done.

Frowning, she takes a step back, watching as tremors begin running through him again, struggling for breath and staring wide eyed up at the ceiling. She turns away, trying to ignore the muttered pleas slipping from her friend, retrieving a pill bottle from the bathroom and a paper cup of water. Carefully avoiding the struggling man’s long arms flailing again at her approach, she quickly puts two pills in his mouth, forcing him to take a sip of water and holding his mouth shut, hurriedly setting the cup down and pinning his arms. It takes a moment, but he finally swallows the pills, even longer before the medication takes effect and he stills. He continues to lightly struggle against Harleen, who waits a moment before letting go, Jonathan stopping completely as soon as she does. 

Sitting on the side of the bed, she catches her breath before picking up the washcloth, knocked off onto the pillow from Jonathan’s violent movements, and uses it to wash the sweat from his face and neck. She grimaces at the heat radiating off his skin, taking the cloth to the bathroom sink to wet it down with cool water. Ringing it out and carrying it back to Jonathan, now sleeping semi peacefully, she lays it over his forehead again and watches him for a moment. With the sigh she had been restraining, she heads for the door, looking back at him once before stepping out. She won’t be going far, however.

Waking with a scream that immediately dies in his throat, a god awful feeling of dread strangling him, Jonathan sits bolt upright in bed, only for sharp pains all over his body to force him down again. The pain persists even then, soon feeling several furry things crawling over him, teeth digging into his body and making him throw off his blanket and writhe, desperately trying to knock his assailants away. He succeeds, but only briefly, a swarm of rats crawling up his legs to bite him once again. Managing to actually scream this time, he kicks his legs and swats at the rodents scurrying up his body towards his face. He tries to plead with the rats, begging them to leave him be, but of course they don’t listen. 

To make matters worse, a dark figure looms over him, seemingly appearing from the shadows of the dark room. Though he cannot see its eyes- or any features at all- he’s certain it’s studying him, watching him like a predator stalks its prey. He tries to cry out for help, but something painfully cold clamps over his throat, claws digging into his neck. It begins to speak to him, the feeling of dread increasing as multiple voices wash over him, each incomprehensible and horrible. It lowers itself down closer to him, glimpses of exposed muscle and rotting bone and too many eyes- Jonathan tries to look away, to squeeze his eyes closed or cover them with his hands or _anything_ , but finds himself frozen in place, eyes stinging as he’s incapable of even blinking.

Just as it stops a mere inch from his face, its breath overwhelming what little of his senses aren’t seized by terror, the thing suddenly lets go of him, another figure taking its place. Only this one’s grasp is gentler, more comforting, his words calling to Jonathan and calming him somewhat. He can still feel his heart hammering in his head as he reaches out for the figure, only to find he can’t reach him somehow.

“Please-” Jonathan begs, stretching his arm as much as possible. “ _Please_ -”

“Jonathan,” the new voice says, quiet and scolding.

“Eh- Ed?” he asks, blinking in surprise.

The other man doesn’t answer, letting him go and stepping back.

“Eddie?” Jonathan asks, the fear returning tenfold. “Eddie, please, I- I-I- I’m gonna die, pl-please-”

“You left,” Edward says simply.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-” Jonathan rasps, the rats crawling over him again, beginning to dig at his face and neck with their claws.

“ _You left_ ,” Edward repeats, angrier this time.

“I-I’m sorry, Eddie, I didn’t-” Jonathan chokes out, trying to reach for him again. He manages to grab ahold of the shorter man’s arm, gripping with all his strength and begging, “please, I d-didn’t- I didn’t- I’m s-sorry, Eddie, please-”

“Jonathan,” Edward interrupts, practically seething.

“I’m s-sorry-!” Jonathan shouts.

“ _Jonathan Emmanuel Keeny-Crane_!” A third voice shouts back as he’s suddenly shaken. “ _Wake the hell up_!”

He squeezes his eyes shut and screams, the ability returning to him as the entirety of his skin seems to be set alight from the touch. He digs his nails into whatever he has a hold on, thrashing his head from side to side. When he opens his eyes again, however, Harleen looks down at him, shouting something he can’t make out. He immediately lets go of her arm, falling relatively still and gasping for breath. Quickly noticing the scent of iron and the sight of red on her arm, he struggles to speak, unable to do more than open and close his mouth like a fish out of water.

“You’re bleeding,” Harleen says, echoing his thoughts.

He tries to point out the fact she is as well, his apology coming out as a slew of slurred syllables, but she pays it no mind, moving his hair to wipe at his neck with a cloth. Hissing in pain, the wounds on his neck stinging, he tries to flinch away, but she holds him in place with a hand on his shoulder. She tries to comfort him, Jonathan able to see her lips moving and hear her voice, but as she continues to clean his very real wounds, the stinging increases to an overwhelming pain and threatens to knock him unconscious. Fortunately, as white spots begin to dance in his vision, she lets go and takes the cloth away, a shaky gasp pushing through his clenched jaw. 

She tries to ask him something, but he still can’t make it out, mumbling, “the rats…?”

“No rats,” Harleen says, as plainly as she can. “You are sick. You will be okay.”

He takes a moment to process that, screwing his face up and saying, “feels l-like’m dyin’…”

“You won’t,” she assures.

“I didn’t mean t-to-” he begins to say, but a crawling sensation on his arm makes him flinch away from her.

“Do you need water?” she asks, trying to keep him grounded.

“I- I-I need-” he struggles to stammer out, only for a particularly nasty tremor to cut him off, making him groan in pain as it re-aggravates his injuries.

“Jon?” Harleen asks, though she receives no reply.

He groans again, covering his face with a hand and twisting away from her. As he begins to writhe yet again, she retrieves the pill bottle and a cup of water from the bathroom, only for him to be out cold in the short time it takes her to return. Setting both items down on a dresser, she rushes to retrieve a chair from the nearby in-home greenhouse. Returning to the room, she places the chair next to the bed- but out of reach, should he react violently again- and sits down, sighing and taking a sip of water herself. Glancing over at Jonathan, she sighs and opens up her phone, looking through her notes on delirium tremens once again, trying to assure herself she’s doing what’s best to help him.

Jonathan’s condition worsens over the next two nights and day, growing more restless and needlessly defensive, experiencing further hallucinations and tremors, that faithful feeling of impending doom and looming death never leaving him. Harleen has to wake him more than once again, each time the scientist crying out for his ex, pleading with him among other hallucinated entities. Curiously, the scratches on his neck- surprisingly deep for something self inflicted- clear up completely in a day, though more take their place and disappear in a similar fashion. She never catches him scratching himself, however she’s admittedly more preoccupied with making sure he doesn’t throw himself off the bed or burn up from his fever or go under cardiac arrest, or any number of other things. She forces herself not to take it to heart when he begins to scream every time she comes near him, crying and pleading for her not to hurt him when she tries to calm him down enough to drink water without choking.

Finally, by the third afternoon, Jonathan wakes up without screaming or thrashing, only looking around the room with bleary, tired eyes. He hardly moves when a hand gently touches his shoulder, lolling his head to the side to look up at Harleen. Whatever she tries to say to him is lost in translation, though not due to any terrors or hallucinations, rather utter exhaustion. He doesn’t flinch when her hand touches his forehead, far cooler than it had been the past three days, and wipes his face and neck down once more. Soothingly running a few fingers through his hair, moving it out of his face, she takes the washcloth to wet it again.

“‘S Ed a’right…?” Jonathan slurs as Harleen walks back out, trying to prop himself up on an arm.

“What?” she asks, not expecting him to be capable of speech. Putting the cloth off to the side, she helps him sit up, putting a pillow under his ribs and saying, “I dunno. No one’s heard from him in a bit.”

He grimaces at that, closing his eyes and rubbing his face. Reaching for his glasses, he mumbles a _thank you_ when Harleen hands them to him, putting the circular spectacles in place. He blinks a few times, feeling his migraine ebb somewhat as his eyes no longer have to strain.

Letting himself lean into the pillows holding him up, he mumbles, “this’s all my fault…”

Refraining from rolling her eyes, Harleen says, “no it’s not. You told me it wasn’t my fault gettin’ wrapped up with Mistah J, and the same goes for y-”

“Eddie _is not_ like _him_ ,” Jonathan interrupts, almost growling.

“Jon, he _hit_ you,” she reminds.

“Deserved it,” he argues. “Horrible to ‘im. Never around, never talked to him, never- Called him horrible things…”

“And he was just as bad,” she says.

“ _I deserved it_ ,” he repeats. “He- He didn’t. Didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve gettin’ left, didn’t deserve dealing with _me_ -”

“Stop that,” she says firmly, setting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing slightly. “You are not some horrible curse, Jon. I know ya think you are, but _you’re not_. Yer a good man, and _you_ didn’t deserve gettin’ stuck in a situation like that.”

“I wasn’ stuck,” Jonathan denies.

Looking at him for a moment, several emotions crossing her expression, she settles on vague sadness, sitting back and saying, “you’re too hard on yourself, Cranie. Your paranoia gets the better of you. Ya think you don’t deserve bein’ happy, that you’re a danger to everyone, so ya try ‘n push ‘em all away.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” he grumbles.

“ _But_ you’re also lonely,” she continues. “You latch onta anyone that manages to get through to ya. Yer loyal and protective of the few folks ya like. People love taking advantage of that. Believe me, I know.”

Looking away, he thinks for a moment before saying, “he said he loved me…”

“And he might have,” Harleen concedes, “but you have to admit he wasn’t very good at showin’ it.” Immediately reading the subtle shattering in his expression, she adds, “I’m not sayin’ he lied to you, Jon. I really don’t think he did. What I’m sayin’ is he saw you as- among other things- a useful thing to keep around for various reasons, consciously or not I can’t say. He might not have meant to or done it all the time, but he used you like a tool. And you let him until recently, ‘cause you like feelin’ useful.”

Taking a shaky breath, Jonathan closes his eyes and nods slightly, taking in her words. He knew from the beginning Edward struggled with putting people before him, he chastised him for it countless times even before they were together, but he told himself he could help him. He wouldn’t let Edward use him, he was done with being used, and yet… Coming to a conclusion, he feels himself craving the numbness he was so used to being his go-to coping mechanism, which only reminds him of the last few days’ events.

With a groan, he rolls onto his back, muttering, “I trusted him…”

“I know,” Harleen nods. “I’m sorry.”

“I _trusted him_ and he _used me_ ,” he continues, pushing his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“You gonna be okay?” she asks.

He shakes his head and looks at her for a moment, eventually saying, “I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“No yer not,” she assures. “You just had some bad luck with relationships.”

“That usually doesn’t equate to near death experiences,” he points out.

“People usually aren’t datin’ rogues, or a rogue ‘emself,” she returns. “Ya just gotta find someone you can really trust, someone you know well, someone that won’t hurt ya and will love ya as much as you love them.”

He gives her another look before rolling his eyes, muttering, “as if anyone like that exists. History says otherwise.”

Frowning, she tucks a piece of hair behind one of his pointed ears, saying, “you’ll find someone eventually. I know you will. Even if ya don’t, you’ll be okay.”

He scoffs at that, taking off his glasses and rolling onto his other side, facing away from her. Her frown deepening, she opens her mouth to say something else, but stops and shakes her head. She gently pats his shoulder before standing up, setting his cup of water on the bedside table and leaving. Though part of him is scared to be alone, and saddened by it, Jonathan is grateful that she won’t see him struggling with the tears welling up in his eyes.


End file.
